Then the silence had shattered, and Dagmar had reached for the boy, knowing he couldn’t outrun the bear, couldn’t do anything beyond wrapping Bayr in his arms, covering him as best he could, and praying to the gods for deliverance. But Bayr was no longer at his side. The child was moving, released from his own stupor, but he wasn’t running away. He was running toward the bear as though he welcomed its arrival.
“Bayr!” Dagmar had shouted, but his voice was dwarfed by the guttural bellow that spilled out of the boy’s throat, a sound so at odds with his size and the shape of his chest, of his species, that Dagmar had staggered back. The bear slowed but the boy did not, hurtling through the trees, his young arms and legs pumping.
Bayr had bellowed again, and the forest bowed, the leaves shook, and the bear veered. The boy followed, slamming into the side of the animal, his arms curled into his chest, his chin tucked, a human cannonball built of fearless fury and impossible faith. The bear tumbled almost comically—feet and fur and surprise—rising slowly, stunned, her mouth gaping in complaint, yawning a plea for mercy. Bayr had rolled alongside the bear, but came immediately to his feet, his arms extended, his legs wide, making himself bigger, fiercer, and he’d roared again.
The bear staggered away, crashing dizzily through the trees, two small cubs toddling behind her. The boy watched them go, his chest heaving, his hands clenched, and Dagmar had remembered how to use his limbs, how to breathe, how to speak. Then the boy was in his arms, clutched to his chest, his dark hair against Dagmar’s lips.
“Never. Never. Never again, Bayr. You must never do that again.”
“She is gone, Uncle. You are safe. She was afraid for her cubs, I think. Like you are, for me.”
“Why did you do that? How?”
“She was going to hurt us.” The boy was not stuttering. Not at all, and Dagmar stared into his guileless blue eyes, stunned once more.
“You must never do that again,” Dagmar repeated.
Bayr frowned and bowed his head. His heartbeat was slowing. Dagmar could feel its cadence against his own chest, dancing with the beat of his own drumming pulse. Dagmar set the boy down, suddenly dizzy, suddenly weak. Bayr was much heavier than he looked.
“That sound . . . you sounded like an animal. How did you do that, Bayr?”
Bayr shrugged, his head still bowed.
“You ran toward the bear. Weren’t you afraid?” Dagmar gasped. The boy’s confidence scared him almost as much as his strength.
“I-I w-w-was a-afraid. B-b-but not of th-the b-b-bear.” Bayr’s stutter was back.
Dagmar knelt once more and stared into the boy’s eyes, waiting. Listening.
“Af-fraid f-for y-y-you,” Bayr whispered, patting Dagmar’s cheeks.
“I am a man. I am your uncle. It is my duty to protect you.”
Bayr shook his head, adamant, and thumped his chest, and Dagmar understood. The boy considered it his duty to protect Dagmar.
“Bayr. Listen to me. You must never put yourself between me and death if it puts your own life in danger. If the fates intend it, so be it. I am your guardian. You are not mine.”
Bayr did not respond, but his jaw grew tight and his eyes sullen. He was not arguing, but he did not agree. The boy reminded Dagmar of himself when he’d told the Highest Keeper he would throw himself from the cliffs of Shinway if the keepers refused him. Dagmar supposed his own stubborn streak had come back to mock him.
“C-c-can’t l-lose y-you,” Bayr had stammered, and there were tears in his eyes.
“I am yours, Bayr. Always. My heart is yours. My spirit is yours, and even when I’m dead, I will refuse Valhalla, and I will follow at your heels, watching over you,” Dagmar had promised.
Bayr had not believed him. Dagmar had seen it in his gaze. Or maybe he had simply wanted Dagmar among the living more than he wanted an angel at his heels. But he’d nodded agreeably, and forgetting the bear, had clasped Dagmar’s hand like the child he was, forgiving his uncle for scolding him.
That had been the first of many feats by the young Bayr. Over the years, Dagmar had ceased scolding and forbidding. How could he chastise the boy for using his gifts? Bayr never looked for contention or confrontation, but he protected fiercely, as though it came instinctively, as though he was compelled to act, and Dagmar continued to cut his palms and say his prayers, drawing runes of patience and perspective into the earth that he might guide the boy—or survive the boy—he’d been entrusted with.
“What does Master Ivo want? Do you know, Bayr?” Dagmar asked as they came to the forest’s edge and began the climb to the temple mount.
“D-dream.”
“He’s had another dream?” Dagmar translated.
The boy nodded once. “The k-k-king,” Bayr said, forcing the word through frustrated lips.
Dagmar quickened his pace.
The earth began to rumble and groan, shifting and shuddering as Dagmar and Bayr loped up the path to the temple wall, and both were knocked off their feet, unable to walk on the angry earth. Dagmar sought to shelter the boy from falling rock even as Bayr found his balance and pulled Dagmar back to his feet.
All at once the shaking ceased, as though the world had decided it was not yet time to end, and screaming arose from beyond the wall, a terrified keening that made the hair rise on Dagmar’s arms.
Without hesitation, Bayr ran toward the temple, and Dagmar rushed to follow. There was no guard on the west wall, but Bayr scaled it in mere seconds, unlatching the heavy door in the wall to let Dagmar through. Together they raced up the path that led through the gardens to the inner sanctum where Ivo spent most of his time. The quaking had weakened the walls of the temple and long cracks ran from the ceiling to the floor in several places, but the sanctum was still standing.
The screaming rose again, and Dagmar flung the door wide, fearful of what he would find.
A group of keepers was huddled around the stone table in the center of the room. The altar was split down the middle.
“The altar has fallen,” Dagmar said, his throat closing in horror.
Terrified chatter echoed among the normally subdued brothers, and as Dagmar and Bayr raced forward, Dagmar saw the crumpled form of King Ansel pinned beneath the rock slab.
“Bayr, run for the guard,” Dagmar demanded. The queen, her eyes crazed with fear, her face streaked with dust and tears, was huddled near the king’s head, reassuring him that all would be well. His eyes were closed, his face still.
Bayr did not obey. Planting his legs in a deep squat, he gripped the slab, and with a roar not unlike the bellow from the long-ago day in the woods, he hoisted the stone from atop the king, tipping it away from his inert body. It crashed to the floor, making the room quake and groan once more. The queen screamed, and the keepers fell back, but the king was freed, and the walls held firm.
“Ansel!” the queen moaned, running her hands over the king’s body. But the king’s skin had grown ashen, and his chest, once broad and deep, appeared concave beneath the folds of his royal robes.
Ivo stooped and laid his head against the king’s heart, the tips of his fingers against the king’s lips.
“He is gone, my queen,” he murmured, his voice steady, his eyes bleak.
Late in the night, when the king’s body had been removed from the temple and Bayr had been sent to bed, Master Ivo summoned Dagmar back to the sanctum. Ivo didn’t acknowledge him as he entered and walked soundlessly down the long aisle, but Dagmar knew his presence was noted. Ivo sat on his throne, his eyes on the broken altar, his hands with their long black nails curled around the armrests. Dagmar knelt at the Highest Keeper’s feet, signaling his subservience and his willingness to be instructed, and then rose, his gaze following Ivo’s to the stone table Bayr had heaved to the side.